


somewhere that isn’t here

by bloodsweatspit



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsweatspit/pseuds/bloodsweatspit
Summary: Ziwa is Elsewhere.cw: this is about dissociation.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	somewhere that isn’t here

It’s not the first time Ziwa has gone elsewhere, but it’s the first time they’ve _been_ Elsewhere.

When Tyler died, Ziwa went for a long time, even as they stepped up to the plate and lifted their bat. They swung and dropped the bat and ran like a mechanized creature, man-made and smooth and capable, but all the time inside their head Ziwa was internally lost in a misty wood, somewhere in a time before and beyond machines. But even as they were in that elsewhere, they still lived in Halifax and walked on the soggy ground of Gleek Arena; it was possible to travel through the fog of mindspace and simultaneously smile at their teammates, shake hands at the end of a game.

That gave Ziwa practice. It wasn’t the first time they’d gone elsewhere - it was a journey they’d first made in a childhood nearly as distant as the gray forest itself, a secret trick they’d learned to endure the impossible. It’s a skill that’s served Ziwa well in more than one game since they started playing. The first time Jaylen killed someone: _go elsewhere_. Dot in a giant shell while Morse taps little messages of reassurance: _go elsewhere_. Workman running the bases on fire, their bones disintegrating in the wind: baby, you went elsewhere the fuckin’ second the lightning hit.

But things are different now. The long siesta was so good for everyone. People came back with new tattoos and new haircuts and new hope. Workman and Beasley and Dot had formed a strange little family in a sparse apartment littered with stray shoes and dog treats. York had settled into Halifax as a second home, bringing a balance to Jesús and CV that they hadn’t even known they needed. Hell, Ziwa had started _dating_ someone. (Well. Not just _someone_. Eugenia, who is gross and kind and always makes Ziwa feel luckier than they’ve ever been in their life.)

Things were going to be different this time. Ziwa had, somehow, regained enough naïveté to really believe that.

And the thing is - it _has_ been mostly different. There have been a small handful of incinerations, but no one close to the team. No one has come back from the dead or been puppeted into hating their friends. It’s been... pretty quiet. Ziwa couldn’t even tell you what sent them elsewhere this time. Maybe something about the smell of rain in the air. Maybe a flicker of light off a cloud that looked too much like the sky on that Tuesday. Maybe nothing at all, maybe just the sudden overwhelming sense that things were _too_ good, that this couldn’t really be Ziwa’s life after all, that it had to be one long sweet dream.

And Ziwa went elsewhere, and found that this time they stayed.

They’re in a familiar forest they’ve never seen before. All forests are familiar, eventually - trees, moss, birdsong, shafts of golden sunlight through leaves. Timeless and beautiful and totally solitary. Other people are Elsewhere when they go, but they’re alone in this forest, in their own personal fog. It’s okay. Ziwa doesn’t want to see anyone else, anyway.

They walk for a long time. There’s not much else to do in this forest. They could start to make a fire, but they aren’t cold; they could build a shelter from fallen branches, but they don’t need rest. There are little glistening stands of blackberries, but Ziwa isn’t hungry. Elsewhere is a place without wants or needs. It’s a place just for _being_ in, when nowhere else is safe to be. Eventually Ziwa comes to a river. It’s narrow, but the dark color of the water speaks of hidden depths. Ziwa’s heard about a stream in England that’s wider beneath the surface than it is on top - the water has undercut the banks over so many aeons, creating hidden tunnels and interlaced channels, but on top it’s still a charming little country brook. No one who’s fallen in has ever made it out alive. Some bodies are never recovered.

Ziwa thinks about that, for awhile, looking at this river.

Downstream, there’s a fallen pine with its needles weathered away, making a neat little bridge to the other side. Ziwa considers it. There’s no particular need to cross the river. The forest on the other side is vast and indistinct as this one; Ziwa doesn’t need anything here, anyway. Even if there was some beautiful vista just over a little ridge - they’re not here for pleasure, couldn’t feel it even if they did walk up onto a view more beautiful than any other in the world. The exploration is purely for the sake of walking. To keep moving, instead of having to sit in the fog with themself and begin to recognize any particular tree or any recurrent thought.

Ziwa is about to turn and head off back into the woods at a different angle when they hear something beneath the rustle of leaves and the birdsong. Something familiar.

“ _... Mx Mueller..._ ”

A creaking ache in their bones. Only one person still bothers to call them that. Only one kid on the team polite enough to use the honorific they’ve always found silly.

“ _... Mx Mueller? Hey... I’m lost..._ ”

York sounds like he’s trying very hard not to cry. Ziwa begins picking their way down the riverbank towards the fallen pine, hesitant, eyes constantly flickering towards the deep and rushing waters.

“ _... Hey... Ziwa...?_ ”

Oh fuck it. Ziwa picks up into a run, thin branches lashing at their face, heart pounding and pumping blood they’d forgotten was still actually moving inside their veins. They can’t see York anywhere on the other side, but he must be so close, his voice is so clear even with the nasal pinch of tears, he must be _right there_ and he needs Ziwa’s help -

They jump onto the pine tree from an angle, not even bothering to line it up first, trusting their body and its instincts in the same way that they do on the field, trusting it to know things a conscious mind cannot. The wood is moist beneath their bare feet. It feels familiar, good. Ziwa has nearly made it to the other side - is poised to make the final leap to the far bank - when the wave rushes up from the hidden depths of the stream and takes them away.

Then Ziwa is back from Elsewhere, lying stunned in the dewy grass of right field, staring into a bright blue sky without a tree branch crossing it.

“ _No_ \- “ They leap to their feet in wild panic, casting their eyes everywhere but not seeing the one person they need to see - “ _Where’s York?_ ”

Dot has materialized at their side, in the strange way that she can now. “Ziwa. It’s all right. York will return.”

“No! He’s out there _alone_ , and he’s _scared_ , he doesn’t _know_ that place and - “

Dot places one paddled squiddish hand onto their shoulder, voice reassuringly calm without a trace of condescension. “He will come back.”

“How can you _know_ that,” Ziwa is crying now, more out of sheer adrenaline than anything else, “what if he gets _stuck_ , what if he _never_ comes back - “

“You did.” Dot’s eyes are large and dark as water. “It’s a bit egotistical to think you’re more capable than York Silk, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t mean it in a cruel way. It’s just a fact - York has lived through so much, and has a resilience that’s always made Ziwa marvel. They giggle a bit, their tears slowing with a little hiccup. “That’s... true.” Ziwa wipes their eyes with the back of one arm.

Dot nods. “And when he comes back, wouldn’t it be better if you’re calm? In case he does need some comfort?”

_Like you’re doing for me._ Ziwa is struck with a rush of gratitude and love. _This is how we bring each other back, and keep each other here._

They want to be ready when York returns. A steady rock to cling to in the wake of the waves. Ziwa swallows the last of their tears and follows Dot to the dugout, ready to be patient, to wait for York to follow them home.


End file.
